


Better Get Ready For a Brand New Day

by gamefish



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Family Feels, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-30 03:13:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8516308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gamefish/pseuds/gamefish
Summary: Enjolras can't understand for the life of him why Grantaire is so happy about the Cubs winning the World Series.





	

Enjolras groaned at the sight of yet another blue W on a stark white background fluttering in the breeze. “Capitalist nonsense,” he muttered under his breath reflexively, and then glanced at R to see if he’d heard. His boyfriend had been mess for the entire World Series. Enjolras hadn’t appreciated baseball’s ability to completely wreck Grantaire--shades of the morose college student flitting in and out--but he knew better than to say anything. Any discussions of “giant money making scheme” or “indoctrination of toxic masculinity” were not welcome. He’d learned that the hard way. 

Enjolras had appreciated Grantaire’s points about successful role models of color and unique examples of platonic male physical affection, but such discussions typically stayed civil for about 10 minutes before devolving into less constructive, more cacophonous showdowns. They currently had a gentleman’s agreement (“That sounds classist, R--” “Yeah, but it also sounds classy!”) to not discuss sports, at least until baseball season was over. This was at the bottom of a long list that included Karl Marx, Romantic poetry, George Clooney, bananas, and Lady Gaga. Also marriage, which was not in the official Excel spreadsheet, but might as well have been a subtitle. 

Enjolras just didn’t understand what was so important about the Cubs to Grantaire when he was so cynical about everything else. Why couldn’t he be reasonable about a schoolyard game that was vulnerable to the wind, to pompous umpires, to human stupidity, and to a person’s ability to throw a ball inside a tiny invisible box at will? 

Not that Enjolras had ever played really. He’d petitioned to be excused from P.E. in 7th grade claiming it was detrimental to his academic potential. His threat to chain himself to the gym doors to protest the cultural appropriation inherent in the yoga unit had sealed the deal. Not that he would ever mention that to R--he’d never hear the end of it. Using actual oppression to avoid an inconvenience...well it wasn’t one of his proudest moments. 

Normally an argument about something like the inanity of professional sports would have been fun for the two of them to go back and forth on, but something about baseball crossed a line in Grantaire’s mental landscape, like it was housed across the hall from 20th century art movements and no-kill animal shelters.

Hobbies were a good way to avoid activism burnout, he reminded himself. And it was healthy for them to have separate interests, according to a casual Google search done on incognito mode while Grantaire was in the shower. 

They were deliberately working on having a healthy relationship, after so many years of...not. And so Enjolras, against every his every loquacious instinct, kept his mouth shut about it. Well he tried. Sometimes things just slipped out...Like when all these happy flags no doubt made in sweatshops were all happily fluttering around the entire city distracting people from the real issues at hand, like another black man shot by an off-duty officer in broad daylight. Or the teacher’s union going back on strike. 

Latching onto that thought, Enjolras began running through the list of who was working with the childcare collective that night to watch the teachers’ children during their meeting. Lost in thought, he almost walked straight into a brick wall. Taking a step back, he gave R a quizzical look. Usually, when a couple took a walk, they...well they walked. Maybe got fair trade coffee. They didn’t get stuck at a wall like a videogame character who didn’t know how to turn around. 

Was this a giant metaphor for their relationship? Enjolras felt the panic begin to vibrate through his chest. Is this why R had asked him to go for a walk? Was it over? Had he found a more supportive boyfriend who knew things about baseball and modern art and wasn’t boycotting quinoa?

R bent down to grab a piece of chalk and began writing something on a brick. Aha--graffiti. No reason to panic. Just some casual defacement of public property, passively resisting the establishment. That made sense. The chalk less so, and Enjolras actually being there even less. R didn’t usually let him come if there was a chance of cops stopping them. 

It was then that Enjolras got a good look at the wall itself. It was covered in chalk writing. Big letters, small letters, lots of years in all the colors of the rainbow. It was beautiful. He looked further up and saw the recently-familiar friendly confines. They were at Wrigley Field. 

That would explain all the W signs. 

“For Rosa”--”For all the Cub fans who didn’t live to see ‘next year’”--”We know you’re looking down, Chuck!” --”We miss you, Grandpa!”

Grantaire was still writing. Enjolras bent down to get a closer look.

“Richard Grantaire. 1955-2007. Keeper of the faith.”

R never talked about his dad. Enjolras knew he’d died right before Grantaire had graduated high school, and that they weren’t particularly close. R didn’t like to talk about him and so Enjolras didn’t ask. 

Enjolras watched as Grantaire placed the stick of chalk back on the ground, and touched his right hand to the wall, next to the name but not smudging it. Unable to see his face, to read his partner in these uncharted waters, Enjolras stepped back to give him space, hoping that was the right move. A vulnerable Grantaire didn’t like being touched, and this was not a moment to push. He continued to read loved ones’ messages to fans who hadn’t made it to see the Cubs be World Champions for the first time in “108 GODDAMN YEARS!” as one scrawl shouted. 

Someone had written an acrostic, which was particularly clever, but his deciphering was disrupted by Grantaire turning around and taking his hand. Following his lead, they continued down the street, a true ocean of blue, dodging parents with strollers, packs of teenagers and twentysomethings, and the occasional elderly person making a similar pilgrimage. Normally he would be on high alert in this kind of crowd, bracing himself for a heterosexist comment or racist slur. But everyone was smiling and laughing, someone bursting out into song every few yards. It may have looked like a high school pep rally, but it didn’t feel like one. It almost felt like an Amis’ party after a successful sit-in. The celebration in the air was contagious. 

Turning off Addison, Grantaire led them into a small churchyard. Enjolras recognized it as somewhere they had meetings preparing for Pride last year. The coffee machine had worked in mysterious ways, and Bousset had broken three of the church’s 1960’s era engraved mugs in as many weeks. He chuckled at the memory, and felt himself relax at the familiar setting.

They sat down on a bench, closer than strangers would be but nestled together. Glancing at R, Enjolras began silently counting to ten, a tried and true technique to allow Grantaire to speak first. At seven, he spoke.

“I know you hate that I love baseball, Enjolras, so thanks for coming with me today.”

Enjolras tried to interrupt, to prove that he was supportive of Grantaire’s interests, but R bent down and grabbed a stick off the ground. “Nope. I have the Talking Stick. It’s my turn to talk.” Though slightly unconventional, it was a legitimate invocation of Combeferre’s Rules of Order, and so Enjolras turned back to face the street, scooting closer to Grantaire in the process. 

“I know that you don’t have a relationship with sports that doesn’t involve high school bullies or overpaid narcissistic athletes.” Enjolras literally bit his tongue to keep from breaking the rules of the sacred talking stick. “But I do. I know I’m not the athletic type, and I’m not the type to have faith in much of anything--present company excluded--but the Cubs have always been an exception. Maybe since they’ve never gotten close since I was a kid, I don’t know.” 

Enjolras released his tongue but remained silent. He watched a squirrel scramble up a tree, echoes of “Go Cubs Go” still faintly on the breeze. Grantaire scooted to the far side of the bench and wrapped his arms around his knees. Enjolras felt physically distant from him, itching to bridge the gap, but there was an emotional closeness insulating them from the outside world here that he didn’t want to disturb. 

“My dad was very old school. Didn’t really talk about feelings. Not one for heart-to-hearts. Or art. He tried, but he didn’t really have the tools. But we had baseball. Sometimes we’d throw the ball around and I tried to pretend like I was somewhat coordinated. And we’d watch the Cubs, yelling at the screen, screaming and hugging at a big play. 

“It was nice, to have our thing. And to feel normal, I guess. When I came out to him as bi, he crossed his arms, looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘Ok son. If anyone gives you crap you send ‘em straight to me. Now who’s pitching today?’ And that was it. It was the same when he got sick. We didn’t talk about him, or me, or what was going to happen. We talked about the team, and their prospects, and how he believed in them. That one day they were going to go all the way.” His voice cracked on the word “going” and Enjolras could hear R’s breathe deeply, in-hold-and out. He placed his left arm on the back of the bench, making it clear that he was there to squeeze as needed. 

“I think I get it now. That it wasn’t the team that he believed in, or not just the team. Or maybe it was the team, but not just in the players, but in the fans too. In me. When I went to college, I stopped believing in a lot of things. And for a while there I stopped believing in myself. But never the Cubs. I could never let them go. And here they are, World Champs, and I’m wondering to myself what it would’ve been like to watch those games with my dad. Would we go out to a bar? Or stay at home on the couch throwing pillows at the TV? And would he be proud of me like he would be proud of them? And here I am in 2016, I’m alive and I’m in love and the Cubs just won the World Series! What can’t I do? Is anything really impossible anymore?”

Enjolras dabbed at his eyes with his sleeve. God he hoped he was worthy of the trust this man put in him. Even though he complained about his taste in music, and his shopping habits, and his stupid, stupid love of baseball. What was he thinking? He clearly hadn’t been, hadn’t paid attention enough, hadn’t thought to ask. 

R passed him the talking stick saying, “I don’t want to be my dad. I don’t want to bottle everything up inside and only speak in symbols. So I wanted to tell you. And to take you there to show you.” He smiled, his face pointing down at the stick but his eyes connecting with Enjolras’, who smiled back, trying to convey as much love and concern as a person could in a facial expression. He always was better with words. 

“I love you. Thank you for sharing this with me,” Enjolras said, taking the stick and trying not to leave R in suspense. But what else should he say? The temptation for an ‘I told you so’ was real, but that wouldn’t be helpful. His fingers itched to open his laptop and open a sparkling new spreadsheet to chart out some goals with his boyfriend’s newfound motivation. But Grantaire didn’t need the fiery chief in red, which was one of the reasons Enjolras needed him. “I’m happy that baseball makes you happy, and I’m excited to see where these new musings take you. If you need anything I’m right here.”

Grantaire looked up, surprised. “That’s it?”

“I have the stick!” Enjolras triumphantly raised it in the air, pretending to try and keep it out of R’s reach. Grantaire snatched it back, proving that he did in fact have some hand-eye coordination. 

“Thanks, Enj,” he said, sealing the cap on the conversation with a kiss, the talking stick falling forgotten in the grass.

**Author's Note:**

> Started this to work through my feelings on the Cubs win and then the election happened. I'd rather post it than leave it wallowing in a drafts folder. I don't have the mental energy to do one last read through--but I hope it might brighten someone's day after such a rough one. Unbeta'd. Blanket permission.


End file.
